Page 5 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)
J osiah Cook, Baron Teddington, paced the floor near the foot of the staircase, hoping Lady Pattishall would appear soon so he could escort her to supper. He’d looked for her throughout the day after she’d made her escape after breakfast, but it appeared she’d remained hidden in her room all day.
He could imagine her distress, and chuckled as he thought about the coincidence of picking his name out of nowhere to be her secret lover.
Stranger still was the fact that he’d arrived at St. Ervan’s home while she was there.
Not only was he not invited, he hadn’t written to announce his plans to call.
To be honest, before he arrived, he wasn’t certain he’d be welcome, but St. Ervan had been a friend for many years.
The earl had likely heard the gossip about Josiah’s most recent escape to the Continent.
All of Polite Society probably heard one of several versions of the tale involving Josiah and a sweet young thing.
Those who knew him well knew the words “love” and “proposal” never entered his seduction of the chit, they were only in her imagination.
This wasn’t the first angry father he’d had to escape.
Several of his friends chided him for the stupidity of his lack of discretion.
They all had mistresses or kept their liaisons to widows or mature women with no desire for a husband.
Josiah was a reformed man, he’d decided on this last jaunt through France.
Widowhood was a requirement for him now.
Only a woman who was deeply in love with another man would tempt him into bed. Or a discrete alcove, if needs must.
Lady Pattishall was exactly the distraction he needed before he returned home. She was prettier than most women of his acquaintance, and something in her manner when she’d tried to explain how she’d chosen him as her apparent beau had touched a part of him he’d thought he didn’t own—his heart.
He looked forward to seducing her.
Even more, he had a strange desire to know her better.
If only she’d rejoin the party.
When Lady St. Ervan approached on her husband’s arm and told him dinner would be served soon, Josiah smiled. “We’ll be there just as soon as my lady is dressed.”
The vision of helping her dress, or undress, warmed him. Later, he told himself. Once they’d eaten, he could begin his seduction.
A few minutes later he heard a gasp from the top of the staircase, and he looked up to see Lady Pattishall standing with her hand over her lips. He put on his warmest smile. “There you are, my dear. Come. I fear we’ll be the last to arrive.”
She slowly descended the steps, her features composed in a polite expression that didn’t announce a grand passion for the man she looked upon.
He’d work on that. For theatrical purposes, of course.
He offered his arm—mock-chivalrous, but with a dignity that almost seemed real. She took it, and her warmth radiated through the fine wool of his coat.
“Do you know what I enjoy most about country house parties?” he asked as they paused before entering.
She shook her head.
“The inevitability,” he said. “No matter what masks we wear, or what games we play, sooner or later the truth always forces its way to the surface. Sometimes with spectacular violence.” He smiled down at her.
Her eyes glanced back and forth between his as if searching for something.
The doors stood open, and they stepped into the full blaze of the dining hall together. The assembled company—lords and ladies, squires and cousins, all with their petty jealousies and sharper ambitions—turned as one to take in the sight.
He felt her stumble, but only tightened his arm beneath hers. He leaned down, lips close to her ear. “I am your dear Teddy, for tonight. Perhaps for all the nights you require.”
A delicate flush swept over the exposed tops of her bosom and up her neck. She whispered, “You call me Theo, as my friends do.”
“Let the games begin,” he whispered, and led her to the open seat beside St. Ervan.
Theo sat in the chair the footman held for her, her pulse thudding in her ears.
At once the conversation, which had been bubbling with gossip and anticipation, dipped and then surged, redirecting its current to the newcomers.
Verity, at the head of the table, gave a knowing little nod.
The Captain, mid-pour, set down his decanter with a thunk, Sir Hugo arched his eyebrows in a semaphore of curiosity.
Theo’s place card was set opposite Teddy’s, ensuring that every glance would find his eyes waiting. Teddy rounded the end of the table and took his seat, folding his long frame with the ease of a man completely at home in any room, no matter how hostile.
“Lady Pattishall, you have stolen the thunder of our entire assembly,” Verity called down the table, the tiniest spark of mischief in her voice. “We are all on tenterhooks to hear your guest’s stories from abroad.”
Theo managed a thin smile. “The baron is an expert at storytelling.”
Teddy’s eyes flicked over her, then returned to his cutlery.
“The best stories, Lady Pattishall, are those told in confidence. But I am at your disposal, should you wish to recount any of our old favorites.” He turned to the rest of the table, his smile suddenly warm and public.
“Of course, discretion forbids me from sharing the most scandalous details.”
A ripple of laughter. Someone—one of the cousins, dressed in an overly ambitious shade of emerald—said, “Were you truly abroad all these months, Baron Teddington? We heard you lived entirely off olives and bad poetry.”
“Worse than bad poetry,” he replied, “I lived off Parisian wit. It is even less nourishing, but far more addictive.”
The table lapped it up, but Theo felt her insides twist. It was the sort of performance she’d feared—the way he could slip into the role she’d invented for him, then embroider it with his own thread until she no longer controlled the pattern.
The first course arrived—consommé, shimmering gold and ringed with parsley. Josiah sipped, then, as if on cue, turned back to Theo. “I cannot say how pleased I am to finally see you in person. Correspondence is a poor substitute for true conversation, is it not?”
The words were pitched just loud enough for the adjacent guests to hear. Lord Claremont, seated to Theo’s right, perked up.
“I should like to know what subjects occupy the best minds of the Continent,” Claremont interjected, “apart from war and revolution, of course.”
Theo hesitated, her spoon suspended in midair. “The baron and I mostly discussed literature,” she managed.
Josiah’s mouth twitched. “Yes. Lady Pattishall’s critique of Byron was especially memorable. You have a rare capacity for dissecting a poet’s failings, madam.”
Claremont looked impressed, the cousin less so, perhaps having hoped for something more licentious.
Theo felt her hands grow clammy. She reached for her wine, grateful for the cool solidity of the glass. “The baron flatters me,” she said, willing the tremor from her voice.
“Nonsense. You said—and I quote—‘No man who loves himself so unreservedly can ever truly understand another’s heart.’” His voice was silk, but underneath it was steel. “I still have the letter somewhere among my papers.”
A few of the women down the table exchanged glances. Verity beamed, radiant with vindication. Theo thought she might die on the spot.
The meal progressed—fish, then game, then the tenderest beef. Teddy kept up a steady barrage, weaving in snippets from their fictional correspondence. Each time, his gaze met hers, daring her to contradict him.
“You must tell them about the winter roses,” he said during the pheasant course, his tone so intimate it might have been meant for her alone. “At Pattishall Park, you wrote me pages describing their bloom against the snow.”
Theo felt herself flush, a deep, mortifying heat spreading up her throat. “You mean the hellebores. There is nothing remarkable about them,” she said.
“I disagree,” he replied, softer now. “Your words made them seem immortal.”
She looked down, fingers scrabbling for the locket at her neck. The cool gold steadied her, a talisman against his unrelenting charm.
The conversation around them grew more desultory as the wine flowed.
Some guests gave up trying to compete and simply watched, absorbed in the spectacle of two people negotiating an invisible, ever-shifting treaty.
Every time Theo thought she might catch her breath, Josiah would upend the table—metaphorically—by producing another “memory,” a detail from a life they had never shared.
After the cheese course, Verity raised her glass. “To our new arrivals! May they bring fresh stories to the old halls.” She caught Theo’s gaze, her eyes sparkling. “And may Lady Pattishall find in Baron Teddington a companion worthy of her intelligence—and her wit.”
A general toast followed, but Theo hardly heard it.
She stared across the table at Josiah, who raised his glass in return, his eyes unreadable.
For a moment, everything else faded—the din, the laughter, even the clatter of plates—and it was just the two of them, locked in a duel neither had chosen, but both seemed unwilling to forfeit.
The servants cleared the final plates and brought coffee in delicate porcelain cups. Theo’s hands finally stopped shaking, and she allowed herself a long, steadying breath. It was nearly over.
As guests began to drift toward the drawing room, Josiah lingered behind, ostensibly admiring a painting on the far wall. Theo stood to follow the others, but he intercepted her, his hand light but insistent at her elbow.
“Stay,” he said, so low that she nearly missed it. “Only a moment.”
She hesitated, then nodded, letting herself be steered to a discreet alcove between the dining room and the conservatory.
He leaned in, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “You are remarkably good at this, you know. Most would have crumbled by now.”
“I’m not most,” she said, before she could stop herself.
He smiled—genuine, this time, the mischief stripped away. “No, you are not. That is precisely the problem.”
She swallowed, her throat painfully dry. “What do you want from me, Teddington?”
He regarded her, the silence stretching until she wondered if he’d answer at all. “I want to see how far you’ll go to protect your story,” he said at last. “And I want to know what you are hiding behind those clever eyes.”
She bristled. “I am hiding nothing.”
He shook his head. “You are hiding everything. But you needn’t worry. Your secret is safe, as long as you wish it.”
She drew back, searching his face for malice. She found none—only a strange, fierce longing, as if he, too, were afraid of what the night would bring.
He bowed, and the gesture was almost old-fashioned. “Until tomorrow, Lady Pattishall.” And then, lower, he added, “I look forward to sharing more of our… memories.”
He released her, and she watched as he walked away, his silhouette stretched long and lean in the flickering candlelight.
When she finally rejoined the others, she did so with head held high, but inside she was undone—disassembled and rearranged by a man who was supposed to be nothing more than a rumor.
She sat among the women, listening to their small talk, but her mind was elsewhere.
The chandelier glowed overhead, its crystals catching every fragment of light and spinning it out across the room.
She realized with a start that she was waiting—not for rescue, nor for disaster, but for the next move in the game.
And when it came, she was almost certain she would be ready.
But tonight, she let herself float on the edge of this new, unstable world, terrified and a little bit thrilled, her heart pounding in a rhythm she recognized as possibility.